That one day with Sherlock Holmes
by Detective In Training
Summary: What happens when one fine day you meet the person you've spent your entire life dreaming of?


It's a wonderfully pretty Monday morning and for a change you're actually early on your way to university so you figure there is time to get a coffee from the nearest Starbucks.

Holding your scalding vanilla cappuccino in your hands you hurry out of the busy place and not seeing the little step on the threshold stumble hard, painfully falling against a tall figure which appears in front of you that very second. Terrified, you watch in slow-motion as the entire contents of the cup splash over the suit of the man and weirdly, the only thought your mind can process is that the suit is tailor cut and looks very expensive.

Flushing crimson with embarrassment you immediately start mopping the man's suit with the tissues that were given with your drink, apologizing incessantly.

"My goodness, I am so, so, so incredibly sorry for this. I just didn't see you and I fell on this step and…and… oh please let me pay for the cleani…"

But you don't get to finish your sentence because the man puts a hand on your arm with which you're desperately clutching the soaking tissues and says,

"Oh please, don't worry about the suit-it's just a small mishap that could happen to anyone; I myself have done that on a number of occasions"

And as soon as you hear this incredibly rich, deep and rumbling voice, a gasp escapes and you feel yourself shaking. No…this cannot be… You lift your eyes cautiously and feel them almost leap out of your head as you gaze star struck at the all too familiar face before you. The razor sharp cheekbones, the lean face, the mesmerizing eyes, the wavy raven hair-it feels too surreal to be true, but since you have for the past half minute been frantically rubbing a tiny piece of tissue against this man's torso, you simply accept that, yes, the man you've spilled a whole cup of coffee on, is in fact-Sherlock Holmes.

In a daze you hear him speak, "Let me buy you another cup of coffee to replace this one. I believe I too am at fault for having so unexpectedly and hurriedly walked into the shop. But would you mind if we found another coffee place? It's just too crowded in here and completely impossible to hold a conversation. I think I know just the right spot, and it's not too distant from here."

Not even knowing what is going on you find yourself nodding your head mutely still grasping the wet tissues to your chest.

He starts walking; keeping half a step in front and you find yourself hurrying your pace to keep up with his immensely long stride. As he walks he introduces himself and inquires about you and your studies and seems impressed when you shyly tell him that you're studying psychology. In exchange he tells you he is a consulting detective and that probably you have never even heard of him and not to appear an overeager fangirl you shrug nonchalantly. Stammering, you manage to ask him a question or two about his job, melting inwardly as he regales you with stories about his countless successful cases in his typical disengaged manner and how he has decided to take short break from the stresses and dangers of his job, on orders of his doctor. John immediately springs to your mind but you keep resolutely quiet. Sherlock really does have a tired air to him and your stomach winces in sympathy.

You notice he has led you away from the crowded main street and is walking towards a quieter road that opens out on a park nearby a canal. Rounding the corner, he shows you to a tiny French café and holds the door open for you. He tells you that his mother used to take him there as a boy and that after lunch he had loved to walk in the park and feed the ducks in the canal pretending that the lake was an immense ocean and he-a pirate, and the ruler of it all. The owner, a corpulent French man, remembers Sherlock and clapping his hands in joy inquires in French what would he like to order. Your somewhat distorted knowledge of the language, however, allows you to understand that the chef has mentioned you as "votre ami délicieux"-his delightful friend, and you realize that if you blush any further you'll set fire to your cheeks.

In perfectly fluent French Sherlock orders a vanilla cappuccino and a black coffee, with two teaspoons of sugar, and two exquisite pastries; "to go" he requests them. Awkwardly, you wait alongside him until the order is ready; he pays refusing your offers to pay your share, saying that you've had quite enough trouble this morning, and once again holding the door for you, sets out into the bright and warm sunshine.

He takes you into the park describing crooks, Anderson's idiocies and his ingenious deducting methods, and soon enough you've relaxed enough to tell him some anecdotes about yourself and smile as he laughs heartily. You wonder why is he scrutinizing you and what can he deduce from your appearance, so you try to slow down your breathing rate and surreptitiously cool your burning cheeks with the back of your hand in an attempt to look less flushed.

He turns to you and once again butterflies swarm in your stomach as you hear him, "Seeing that I've shamelessly abducted you from your daily plans and you've probably already missed a lecture or two, would you mind joining me for an impromptu picnic here in the park? You're a wonderful person to talk to and I'd gladly have your company for a while longer."

Giddy with joy you beam out a slightly breathless agreement and in companionable silence walk by his side as he leads you to a place on the opposite side of the park where he says he used to have picnics by himself when he was younger because he had no friends to have picnics with and that Mycroft was never interested in spending time with him. Incredibly saddened by this private insight, you tell him about being an only child and that you've stayed somewhat lonely throughout your life.

Suddenly you feel yourself lose balance over some gravel on the path and he gallantly takes your hand to steady you, and does not let go even when you recommence walking, at which point your legs seem ready to give way but you persuade yourself to calmly keep moving forwards, one leg at a time. Walking a bit further ahead, moving away from the path, he stops and you find yourself in a small, secluded spot on higher ground, which is completely invisible to anyone walking along the main path. He takes off his suit jacket and spreads it on the ground explaining that if it's already dirty, some grass stains won't make much of a difference, but realizing that his words make you feel uncomfortable and guilty he apologizes. You sit down on the edge of the jacket as he takes his place directly opposite you, comfortably cross-legged, and opens the paper bag that held the take away food handing you your second vanilla cappuccino of the day along with the mille foglie pastry. You sit there relishing the sunshine and the food as you chat companionably about life, feeling closer to him than you've been to anyone in years.

Handing you a napkin from the bag your hands touch and a slight blush creeps over his smooth cheekbones, his large and beautiful hand lingering on yours for slightly longer than necessary and he leans forward, so large and warm and…well…unbelievably real, that feeling too overwhelmed by all this emotion and your pulse racing, you leap up nervously and walk to the side of the clearing letting the wind flow through your hair calming you. You hear a twig break behind you, turn and see his large figure standing over you, his deep, sea green and gold flecked eyes boring into your soul and slowly you feel yourself drowning in them as your heart starts to beat so loudly you're surprised he doesn't hear it.

He whispers so quietly that you're not quite sure you're imagining it or not, "Forgive me if I startled you. I feel a strange connection with you as though I've known you from a different lifetime. You are indeed a special person." His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles shyly and the wind plays with a lock of hair fallen across his forehead.

Leaving one hand casually in his pocket, with his other hand he brushes back your windswept hair and gently runs his fingertips down the side of your face, caresses your lips with his thumb-light like the wings of a butterfly and finally lifts them to his, as you stare mesmerized at those angelically curved lips you've so often fantasized about.

In one swift stroke he slashes your neck open with the knife that was in his pocket, so quickly you don't even have time to scream and leaves you there as you die in pulsating waves of blood.


End file.
